


The Intimacy of a Chaste Kiss

by notluvulongtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notluvulongtime/pseuds/notluvulongtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a mystery why Sherlock is unwell and Lestrade is determined to crack the case without harming his partner further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Intimacy of a Chaste Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelittlepalecat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thelittlepalecat).



> This was inspired by a [sketch](http://notluvulongtime.tumblr.com/post/58715721551/thelittlepalecat-asexual-sherlock-greg-quick) by thelittlepalecat. Just wanted her to know how much I appreciate her artwork and her gentle, warm and loving personality.
> 
> Characters aren't mine, of course. Many thanks for the last-minute beta and support from ImpishTubist.

*   *   *

 

“He’s been up more than half the evening and into the morning and he doesn’t look right –“

 

“You’re sure it’s not just due to the usual –? You know how he is in the middle of case.”

 

“John, you know I wouldn’t call you unless I’d tried ev’rythin.’”

 

Greg was lapsing into his West Country accent, and thick with it, too. He was as tired as a new father on his tenth sleepless night with a newborn. Except this wasn’t about a man he treated as his son.

 

“Do you want me to come over?”

 

John’s voice sounded tinny on the line – and it was a bit strained. Greg pressed the tips of thumb and forefinger into the corners of both eyes to try and mute the sharp pinpricks of painful light behind his closed eyes, suddenly remembering things of import.

 

“No,” Greg exhaled, shaking his head, letting his hand drop, “I know you’re leaving for Portofino tomorrow; I wouldn’t do that that to you and Mary.”

 

“She doesn’t mind, mate – “

 

“No, but _I_ would.” Greg looked down and ran a hand through the short hairs on the back of his head, “Sorry to bother you; I’ll figure something out –“ Greg was about to press the ‘end’ key on his mobile -

 

“Now, hold on!” John’s voice was abrupt; it was his doctorly one coming to the fore. “When did this bout of insomnia start?”

 

It was a relief to be taken seriously. Sherlock was a light sleeper and he didn’t require the same amount of hours that most humans did in order to function, but the bond Greg shared with John was that the latter believed him if their common charge’s biological pendulum swung to either extremes.

 

“It started ‘bout two days ago,” Greg sank into Sherlock’s chair, staring off towards the direction of their bedroom and wishing the leather beneath him wasn’t so cold.

 

“Last oral intake, too?”

 

“Yeah, I think it was coffee; one of Mrs. Hudson’s tea sandwiches she brought up for elevenses. Even then it was just half of one. ‘s not even bothering with the nicotine patches.”

 

“You promised me he’d go easy on that from now on -”

 

“He finds a way. He’s not a child, John. Even if he makes us want to punish him like he’s one.”

 

A gale of wind on the other line signified a short burst of laughter on John’s part, despite himself. “Anything going on other than the case? Anything you can think of?”

 

“No. I don’t know.”

 

“Have you tried looking through his things? He does this to me all the time. Thinks he’s being clever. You might as well start.”

 

“Hush. You’re not supposed to make me smile.”

 

“It’s the way we get through these things, yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Wait.” Greg was going through the top drawer on Sherlock’s desk. He rifled through to the bottom and pulled out a yellow envelope.

 

Greg checked the return address. Some criminology society Sherlock had been talking about for months. Then he eyed the postal date. It was marked a few days before. He took note of the region and did some mental math. The package had arrived two days before; he was almost sure of it.

 

“What’s going on? Greg?”

 

“Sorry, John. Just found something. Wondering if I need a bomb squad –“

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

It didn’t look or feel unusual, no oily marks or smells. Greg pulled back the flap and reached inside, pulling out a half-inch thick bound sheaf. His eyes went wide when he read the title and the note clipped onto it.

 

“It’s worse than a bomb.”

 

“Greg, I’m coming over – “

 

“Remember Sherlock’s monograph? The one about the tobacco ash?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“He finally finished it. Sent it in.” Greg laid the paper and its envelope on the desk and brought his mobile up more firmly to his ear with the available hand so that he could be heard properly. He sighed while looking forlornly in the direction of their bedroom.

 

“It’s been rejected.”

 

*   *   *

 

“Go away!”

 

“Sherlock, unlock the door and I will.”

 

“You won’t.”

 

A five second pause. Sherlock sat up. He could hear Greg’s footfalls retreating to a distance beyond the door. Then -

 

“You’re right. I _won’t._ ”

 

There was a thumping of feet, followed by a crash. The door swung open, bits of wood flew past, the lock thoroughly smashed. Greg was a blur of grey, black and flesh tone until he landed almost at Sherlock’s feet, wincing, gasping and holding his right shoulder – the one he’d effectively put through the door to break the lock.

 

It took only a moment to deduce that there were no broken bones or impaled limbs. Sherlock’s wooden expression hardly twitched. The intrusion only made him pull the maroon dressing gown around him tighter. He collapsed on the bed and turned to face the wall.

 

“I’m okay, in case you were wondering, but you’re getting a little too old for this and so am I,” Greg gathered himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, moving Sherlock’s knees until he could be beside him, so they could look at one another. “I know about the monograph. I know how hard you worked on it.”

 

Sherlock turned to the opposite side facing the door. The cage he’d put himself in had been broken into and he was not appreciative. “Get out, Lestrade. I know you wish to make me feel better, but you can’t.”

 

He could hear the man sigh and if it weren’t for the emotional numbness brought on by the insomnia, Sherlock would ache, but instead he felt nothing. He wanted to be cruel to Greg because he felt alone in the world for the past two days. Something he’d wanted, something he knew others would laugh at him for had been thrown back at him. The greatest secret he held was that despite all the trappings, all of what the newspapers said, he didn’t feel like ‘boffin Sherlock Holmes.’ He questioned his genius every day. It was a chink in the armour he’d kept since sixth form and carried with him through university with the likes of Seb Wilkes. But now the veil of bravado had been removed, and so easily, too, that it was nearly impossible to focus on anything else.

 

“I’m not doing this for you, you know,” The low rumble of Greg’s voice resounded as Sherlock heard him toe off his slippers and slip into bed beside him, “I’ve missed you since this self-imposed exile of yours. Forty-eight hours –“

 

“Forty- _nine._ ”

 

“Right. Forty-nine hours are too many hours without you.”

 

Sherlock felt the warmth of Greg’s body wrap itself along his shoulders, his spine, even though they were barely touching. “One of us should get sleep,” he let out charitably.

 

“You know it doesn’t work that way, Sunshine.”

 

Sherlock could feel Greg’s breath on his neck. It was annoying. He turned to face him. “Just what are you –“

 

“Shhh.” Greg put a finger to Sherlock’s lips. “I know there’s nothing I can say to make things better. I promise I’ll be quiet. Just let me lie here with you. Or breaking down that door will have been for nothing.”

 

*   *   *

 

Seconds passed. Minutes. A half hour past. And Greg was true to his word.

 

Silence.

 

But the intensity of his stare, it made Sherlock shiver. Every time he attempted to say something, Greg did the same thing as before and placed a finger over his lips and offered up a gentle smile in lieu of explanation.

 

His gaze. It was a caress. It asked for nothing. It searched for nothing. It just beheld him, without judgment, without pity. It was a look of pride, of gratefulness. Wonder at times, mischievousness at others.

 

And then, without warning, Greg moved in and kissed him. It came as a surprise, but not due to the act itself, but the way of its approach.

 

Greg had focused on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, had nibbled lightly, went as far to lick it a bit. With his hand, he cradled his partner’s jaw and with his thumb, he began caressing the other corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

 

It was _ridiculous_ , Sherlock wanted so much to say, but he refused to be the one to break the silence, to lose this improvised battle of wills to shatter a black mood he found impossible to break. And the last thing he wanted to do was to change his expression, to show that Greg had any effect on him at all.

 

But then his body betrayed him and Sherlock burst forth with a laugh.

 

It was a gift and Greg responded with a grin.

 

“You big, bloody git.”

 

He swooped in for a more purposeful kiss this time and Sherlock let his mouth be pried open, their tongues circling, Greg’s teeth nibbling his lower lip. Sherlock wanted it to last longer and was surprised when his partner pulled back slightly to return his attention to that infuriating corner of his mouth again. The nibbling of that spot, the light flicks of his tongue continued, accompanied by the brush of Greg’s thumb on the other corner –

 

“Stop!” Sherlock let out an uncharacteristic giggle that shocked even himself, “What are you on about, Lestrade?!” He pulled back and frowned.

 

“I had an inkling, an idea.” Greg smiled. “That the corners of your mouth might be ticklish.”

 

He swooped in for another kiss, one that robbed Sherlock of any breath to respond in kind. When he came up for air, Greg lay the side of his face on the pillow and grinned.

 

“I was right, wasn’t I?”

 


End file.
